


In From The Cold

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward rom-com situations, Baby Clones, Good Parent Jango Fett, He's not, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Jango thinks he's in control of shit, Love at First Sight, M/M, Matchmaker Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan adopts himself a batch of clones, Parent Jango Fett, Poor Life Choices, Protective Anakin Skywalker, Protective Jango Fett, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, The Internal Meltdown of Jango Fett, Three seconds in and Jango's fucked, Young Anakin Skywalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A newly hired Jango Fett is sent by Count Dooku to 'keep an eye' on new Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.'Don't fall in love with the Jedi' wasn't on Jango's list of mission precautions.A mistake.ON HIATUS
Relationships: Jango Fett & Anakin Skywalker, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 469
Kudos: 2172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Yes,' you cry. 'Just what I wanted. ANOTHER damn WIP...'
> 
> In my defense, I have the brain of a hyperactive and easily distracted squirrel.

Jango only takes the job because it’s a _jetii_. His commitment to the _Resol'nare_ is questionable at best: he has no cause to speak his language, no family to protect, no clan to support, and the title of _Mand’alor_ is now but a fractious ruin of the past. He wears the _beskar’gam_ , but that is it. The extent of his devotion to vows once held sacrosanct.

But still. He takes this job only because its a _jetii_. His honor counts for little these days, and this would be a truly dishonorable act to take against any other target. But _jetii_ have no souls and they have no honor of their own, so perhaps in some perverted way, this _is_ an adherence to the _Resol'nare._

 _“I don’t want him dead. You understand, Fett?”_ Tyranus’s last words ring in his ear as he spies his target across the bustling crowds of the Senate District’s busiest transport hubs. He’s waited days for his quarry to leave the protection of the Temple, his plan of attack carefully constructed to match both Tyranus’s instructions and everything he knows about Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The man has quite the record. Sealed, of course, to all outside his beloved Order, but easily accessed by one who once walked among them. Tyranus has left little to chance, and Jango is well-armed with knowledge.

It’s that research that stops him from pausing in surprise when he finally gets a good view of the man he has been sent to entrap. He’s expecting a great warrior, someone who carries himself with the confidence that comes from a once in a millennium kill. Instead, he sees a rather ordinary-looking man who clutches the edges of his enormous robe with one hand and rests the other on the shoulder of the vibrating boy at his side.

Jango has no designs on the child. He’s made that perfectly clear to Tyranus. He’ll make full use of the vulnerabilities the boy presents in Kenobi, but he’ll harm no innocent boy.

Oddly, that’s where the components of his belief struggle to reconcile themselves. A _jetii_ is a _jetii_ \- monsters one and all. That young Anakin Skywalker is only ten years old should make no difference when ridding the galaxy of their filth. But it does. A weakness he will need to address sooner, rather than later. The child is ten now, but he will grow as Kenobi grew.

And if someone had killed Kenobi as a child, he would never have grown to help the traitor take his _buir’s_ throne.

Jango feels his lip curl in anger and has to remind himself that he’s not wearing _beskar’gam_. He’s wearing very little, really. Boots and heavy pants, the fabric indulgently expensive. The shirt and jacket he wears both display the delicately embroidered crests of a House Kryze retainer. It’s illegal for anyone not under the traitor’s employ to wear them. Everything Jango is doing right now is illegal, and so he pushes the disgust he feels at his clothing to the back of his mind.

A good disguise - and a good lie - carries as much truth as possible, and Kenobi has a very significant flaw in his armor.

“Will there be speeders in the museum, Master?” The boy at Kenobi’s side bounces excitedly on the balls of his feet.

“I imagine so,” Kenobi chuckles. “I’ve not been for a very long time. I remember they had a wonderful exhibit on Shyriiwook poetry - some of the Thykarann texts were quite extraordinary.”

Skywalker pulls the exact face Jango wants to make. “Wookies have poetry?”

“Of course. I doubt there is a spoken language in existence that does not.”

“Gardulla’s palace had a lot of drinking songs,” Skywalker wrinkles his nose further.

It’s a subtle movement, but Kenobi pulls the boy closer to his side. “I’m merely arguing its existence, not its quality,” Kenobi says dryly. “And please don’t go teaching them to any of your agemates.”

“Of course not, Master,” Skywalker says, his sabacc face breaking to reveal a cheeky grin below the surface.

“Hmm. Come along now, Anakin. I’ve promised Master Ali-Alan I’d have you back in time for evening meditations and there is much to see.” Kenobi picks up the pace, forcing Jango to do the same in order to keep them in hearing distance. He sees Kenobi clock his presence and forces every urge he has to put a blaster bolt between his eyes down down down until only the very serenity of battle settles over his nerves. It’s hard to fly under a _jetii’s_ radar, but Jango has had practice.

Skywalker has no problem keeping pace, often moving ahead of his Master in his excitement. “Can’t I meditate with you?”

“Soon,” Obi-Wan promises. “But not yet.”

The child’s expression falls. “I’m working really hard, I swear! I won’t be a bother!”

Kenobi looks surprised. “I know you are, Padawan: I’m very proud of you.”

Skywalker lights up in delight, his small face aglow with pride and adoration. The boy hangs on Kenobi’s every word, and likewise, Kenobi looks equally as soft when speaking to his student.

The Skywalker goes and continues. “So why can’t I meditate with you? Other Padawans meditate with their Masters!”

“I know, Anakin. Do not trouble yourself, and do not rush so quickly towards your goal. There will come a time when the very last thing you want to do is meditate with your Master.” Skywalker is walking backward and narrowly avoids walking into a passing Twi’lek. “Now do try and remember that you are a Jedi, not a rampaging gundark. Face forward please, and try not to run anyone over before we get there.”

“Yes, Master,” Skywalker’s eyeroll is impressively dramatic.

With a location confirmed, Jango stops at a nearby refreshment stand and orders a caf. With it in hand, he wanders to the low wall that runs along the wide walkway leading to the museum. He’s fine with Kenobi clocking his presence, but the _jetii_ will be more at ease with a coincidental second run in than he will with Jango following him all the way inside.

Besides. It's good caf. For Coruscant.

He gives it ten minutes, then heads back on his hunt.

Tyranus doesn’t want Kenobi dead, but he does want him alienated from his precious order. Isolated. He wants Kenobi by his side for some reason, seeing something within him that deserves to be saved from the corrupting influence of the _jetii_. The direct approach will not work - he has no relationship with Kenobi himself, just a tentative connection via a man whose memory only tightens Kenobi’s leash to the Order.

And so it falls to Jango. Not to do what first comes to mind when ordered to disable an enemy, but rather the opposite. There will be no forcing Kenobi onto this new path. No, he needs to choose it for himself.

Or at least believe that he has.

Jango has never actively set out with the intent to seduce someone for a job before. He’s fucked people for information, for credits, for fun, but not this. And not with a _jetii_. At least Kenobi is easy on the eyes. A little too prim and proper, a little too rigid, but pull that stick out of his ass and he’ll at least make for an entertaining night or two.

He pays for his entry ticket, knowing Kenobi and the boy will have been waved past the line. _Jetii_ don’t pay for things the way the rest of the damn galaxy does.

Once inside, it’s easy enough to find them. Skywalker’s enthusiasm is loud, despite Kenobi’s instructions, and he flitters around between exhibits in excitement.

“Have you flown one of these before?”

“Yes, Anakin.”

“What about this one?”

“No, Anakin.”

“What about _this_ one?”

“No one sane flys a Desert 86-00,” Jango says, stepping into the conversation with an easy smile.

Kenobi turns to him, polite and alert. He recognizes Jango from the street outside, but this time he is close enough to identify the house crest on his jacket.

That recognition is rewarded, somewhat surprisingly, by an incline of Kenobi’s head and a word-perfect Concordian greeting. “Well met, Mando. My apologies for disturbing your observations - my apprentice is young and this is his first time in a museum.”

He knows Kenobi has every reason to speak Mando’a, but Jango is still caught off guard.

Skywalker, pulled away from his excitement by the conversation, edges closer to Kenobi, and looks at Jango with that same curiosity. Oh, to be young.

“What language was that?” Skywalker asks.

“Mando’a,” Jango answers him, “impressively spoken, _Jetii_.” It’s an effort not to spit the world like the insult it is. “You don’t find many in the Core who speak it.”

Kenobi accepts the compliment with a wry little smile. “I traveled extensively in my youth,” he answers.

“It’s served you well, Master-”

Kenobi shakes his head. “I am only a Knight. Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service.”

“And I’m Anakin Skywalker.” Kenobi puts his hand on Skywalker's shoulder and makes a valiant effort not to smile at him.

Jango bows respectfully to them both. “Well met, Knight Kenobi, Young Skywalker. I am Jango.” His name is common enough not to draw comparisons to a dead man.

“You serve Clan Kryze?” Kenobi asks, his eyes on the embroidered crest.

“In a way,” Jango nods. “I am a political aide.” He offers the lie with a smile and prolonged eye contact.

Kenobi isn’t stupid. Jango carries himself as a warrior and knows the _jetii_ recognizes as much. When he says political aide, what he implies is bodyguard. It’s a carefully constructed lie with just enough truth to be believable. Jango _does_ offer his services as such on occasion. And by aligning himself with the traitor, he enjoys the warmth that associations brings with it, and excuses his physical presence.

“Not a position I envy, friend,” Kenobi says kindly.

Mandalore is and will remain a neutral system, but their politicians often have cause to visit the Republic, especially in the wake of a monumental political upheaval the likes of which has just occurred.

“You’re a Mandalorian!” Skywalker suddenly exclaims. “I heard about you guys! Some of the traders in Mos Eisley hired a bunch of you to deal with poachers - you’re _awesome_.”

“You probably have a more favorable opinion than most of your kind, young Jedi,” Jango says carefully.

“You’d be surprised,” Kenobi’s voice is soft, almost sad. Jango is close enough to see the smudge of his dark lashes and the shocking blue of his eyes. He has the same coloring and features as the Usurpers and it doesn’t help his cause.

Pretty enough though, in a soft, civilized sort of way. The enormous robes do him no favors, swallowing him in a shapeless mass from the neck down.

“So,” he clears his head and regains his focus, “first time in a museum, huh?”

“I’ve only been here a few weeks,” Skywalker says, shrugging. “This is the first time we’ve had a day off. Master Obi-Wan said we can go to a diner after!”

Jango laughs. “You should go to Dex’s. He does the best nerfburgers.”

Kenobi rolls his eyes so fast he has to hurt something. “Dex doesn’t typically cater to political aides,” Kenobi says pointedly. It’s almost sharp and absolutely curious.

 _Gotcha_ , Jango thinks. Curiosity killed the _jetii_. Or in this case, lured him into Jango’s bed.

“Didn’t think he liked Jedi much, either,” Jango raises an eyebrow.

Skywalker, between them, looks back and forth at Jango and his Master before his face settles into something mischievous.

“Can we go to Dex’s, Master?”

“We _were_ going to Dex’s,” Kenobi sighs.

“Can Jango come too?”

At this rate, Jango is going to have to split his chit with the kid.

“I’m sure he has better things to do,” Kenobi shoots Jango a look that manages to be both apologetic and cautionary.

Jango ignores it. “Not really. Did you know that it’s thought the origin of Mando’a actually comes from Coruscant?” He asks Skywalker the question, not Kenobi. “The _Dha Werda Verda -_ great Taung warriors who fought the human battalions of Zhell on this ground, thousands of years ago.”

“ _Cool!”_

“There’s an exhibit of ancient Taung texts up ahead - it’s what brought me here. We should visit before leaving.”

“Yes!” Skywalker blasts off like a land speeder, one hand fastened in the sleeve of Kenobi’s robe. “Come on, Master!”

“Slow down, Anakin!” Kenobi scolds. “Remember your classes. Jedi do not _dash about_ like rampaging beasts.” He looks physically pained by the boy’s rambunctiousness.

“Unless they’re being shot at,” Jango smirks, pleased with himself when the corner of Kenobi’s lip twitches.

“Sorry, Master,” Skywalker says, subdued for all of a second before he spots something else of interest and breaks away to investigate.

Kenobi sighs heavily.

“Kid’s rocket fuel between his toes,” Jango aims for sympathetic. It’s not his strong suit, but he thinks he lands somewhere near target.

“This is all very new to the both of us,’ he admits softly. Then, seeming to remember where they are and that Jango is a complete stranger, he shakes his head. “Please do not think me rude, but I don’t feel particularly comfortable taking you away from your plans.” He phrases it in a way that implies he feels bad about distracting Jango, but Jango understands the truth of what goes unspoken. He’s uncomfortable with _Jango_ , not the imposition.

Good. He’ll be a lot more uncomfortable by the time they are done.

“You think you can teach the kid better Mando’a than I can?” Jango raises a pointed eyebrow.

“I - what?”

“Exactly.” Jango gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder and forces himself to ignore the subtle flinch that follows. “Hey kid,” he calls after Skywalker, leaving Kenobi still and stunned in his wake. “You wanna learn some Mando’a?”

Skywalker bounces back over and beams at him. “Yes!”

Jango pauses and contemplates the fastest way past Kenobi’s polite facade. “Okay, repeated after me: _**Ne**_ -”

“Ne.”

“- _shab_ -”

“Shab.”

“- _rud_ -”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Kenobi scowls at him.

Jango grins right back, holds Kenobi’s gaze, and says, “- _ni_.”

“Ni. _Ne shab’rud’ni_. What does that mean?”

“It means burgers are on our new friend here,” Kenobi crosses his arms over his chest. Beneath that stern surface, something bright flickers.

Jango shrugs. Fine by him. Leaning closer as to not be overheard by the kid, Jango lowers his voice and whispers softly in Kenobi’s ear. Mando’a isn’t a particularly romantic language, but it’s highly visual. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very pretty when you’re angry?”

He can pinpoint the exact second Kenobi’s brain trips over itself.

It’s rather sad, really. Jango usually has to try harder than this - although less clothing requires less effort.

“Okay,” He turns back to Skywalker. “Try this one: _iba’shabuir_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango is a menace with absolutely no sense of boundaries. At ALL. 
> 
> The rating is going up next chapter :D

Jango has never had cause to meet Dexter Jettster face to face in the past. He’s bought weapons from him, back in the days when he dabbled in things like that, and he’s taken chits via the Guild, but they’ve never spoken. It allows him to get away with a polite smile as Kenobi is first engulfed in the arms of a pretty blonde human waitress, and then an enormous Besalisk.

“Obi-Wan!”

Dex lifts Kenobi clean off the ground in his enthusiasm. Surprisingly, the _jetii_ only laughs and hugs him back with equal vigor. “Hello, Dex!”

Set back on his feet, Kenobi pulls Skywalker in front of him, his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Jango _should_ be paying attention to his surroundings and lining himself up for his next lie, but instead, his gaze is fixed solely on Kenobi. Gone are the soft, parental little smiles he gives Skywalker. In their place is a wide, delighted expression, full of warmth and affection. No one has ever looked at Jango with such happiness, and he finds himself resentful of the ease in which Dex has summoned it.

“And you’ve got company!”

“Dex, meet Anakin Skywalker and Jango.”

Dex gives Jango the once over, something frightening sharp behind that jovial expression. His friendly persona is a good disguise for the kind of man he once was. He doesn’t say anything though, just clocks the jacket, then turns his attention on Skywalker. “You must be the new Padawan!”

“Yes sir,” Skywalker says, almost nervously.

Dex leans in close to him. “You know, I knew your Master when he was your size.”

That perks the kid right up. He looks up over his shoulder to Kenobi. “Really?”

“Hmm,” Kenobi nods. “I landed myself in some trouble when I was an Initiate. Dex and Hermione were kind enough to offer me shelter for the evening.”

Hermione, the pretty waitress, flashes Kenobi a maternal smile. “And you get more handsome every time we see you,” she teases, making Kenobi flush. “You boys take the booth over there, I’ll come by in a second and take your order.” She’s already darting off to see to the next influx of customers.

“Rush hour?” Kenobi asks, guiding Skywalker across the diner and sliding in the booth. He’s picked the side with the best view of the door, leaving Jango in a spot that makes his skin crawl. He’s probably not about to be attacked while having lunch with a _jetii_ , but he hates the lack of clear escape routes.

“Aye,” Dex says, scratching the back of his head. “Doesn’t help poor FLO’s packed it in.” He points over at the service droid stood frozen by the door, her head hanging low. “I wish I could stay and chat, but-” he looks regretfully at the barely controlled chaos of his full diner. 

“Of course,” Kenobi says quickly. “And please don’t feel the need to hurry on our account.”

“I can fix her!” Skywalker offers. “She’s a WA-7, right? I built a protocol droid, they have the same basic transponders.”

Dex laughs, caught in the kid’s infectious enthusiasm, but he looks to Kenobi first.

“Anakin does seem to have a knack for machines,” Kenobi says wryly. There’s a story there, Jango knows it.

“Kid, you fix my FLO and you’ll never pay for a sundae here in your life,” Dex laughs, heading back into the kitchen.

Jango doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone say the word “Yipee!” before in his life, but that doesn’t stop Skywalker. Before Kenobi can slide out of the booth and let him pass, the kid is climbing over the table and racing towards the broken doid.

“Does he even know what a sundae is?” Jango asks Kenobi, shaking his head. Kriff, Skywalker is an endearing little shit, even as he's ripping droids apart.

“Oh, most certainly not,” Kenobi sighs.

“Jawa juice for you boys?” Hermione calls across the diner.

“And two caf,” Jango nods. “You look like you need it,” he says to Kenobi, who wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, thank you.”

Jango chuckles and holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m impressed anyone can keep up with that level of energy. Are all _jetii_ kids so... fast?”

“Not at all,” Kenobi says, finally smiling again. “But in all honestly, I am just glad to see him happy. It hasn’t been the easiest year.”

Here we go.

“I’m all ears if you wanna share?”

“I don’t typically make it a habit to share my traumas with someone I’ve only just met,” Kenobi says dryly.

“Trauma, huh?” He can see Kenobi’s expression starting to close off. “Yeah, I know a thing or two about that.”

They both lean back and thank Hermione when she deposited their drinks on the table. “Nerfburgers all round?”

Kenobi gives her another of those smiles. “Thank you, Hermione.”

Beam back at him, she reaches over and touches Kenobi’s cheek. “You got it, sugar.”

She’s only gone for a few moments before Kenobi asks the question that’s clearly been at the front of his mind since the museum.

“So. Are you going to explain what it is you’re wanting?”

Jango has a mouthful of caf when Kenobi asks. He has to swallow it down painfully. “Who says I want something?”

“Is there another reason why you’ve decided to take a break from your day to have lunch with a complete stranger?”

“Though you _jetii_ we’re supposed to be friendly,” Jango snorts, “and yet I’m detecting a distinctly suspicious tone right now.” He keeps his voice light and teasing and is pleased when Kenobi rolls his eyes.

“We are friendly,” he protests. “Just not usually... this friendly.”

“You want me to admit I’m just trying to get under those robes of yours?” He goes direct from the jugular and enjoys the way Kenobi’s eyes widen. He wonders if he’ll look so shocked when Jango kisses him.

“I-” Kenobi swallows, “actually, that would be reassuring.”

“I thought you weren’t that friendly?”

“More people try and kill Jedi than date them,” Kenobi’s smile is soft and a little pained. He can’t quite meet Jango’s eyes and kriffing hells, he’s too old to be this naive. The flush on his cheeks is warm and pink, those pretty blue eyes of his hidden behind a demure sweep of his eyelashes. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, thoughtlessly enticing. With anyone else, Jango’d say he was being teased, but kriff, Kenobi clutches his caf like a virgin on her wedding night clings to her robes. Come to think of it, Kenobi clutches his own robes much the same way.

This is too easy.

Jango reaches across the table between them and rests the tips of his fingers over Kenobi’s. “You know, for someone who ‘isn’t that friendly’, you sure are quick to call this a date.”

Kenobi has long fingers, slender and elegant, and surprisingly rough. He doesn’t snatch his hand away, so Jango pushes forward and slides his own carefully up towards his knuckles and back down again. It’s just a small move and might be innocent if not for the weight Jango carries in his gaze.

“I - oh - didn’t you just say...” he pulls his caf back sharply towards him, clearing his throat and flushing with mortification. If he gets that wound up by a little light handholding and petting, Jango thinks he might end up breaking him in the bedroom. “You’re very presumptuous.”

“Only when faced with empirical evidence,” Jango shrugs.

Kenobi’s eyes narrow. “Oh yes? And what’s that?”

Jango holds out his hand expectantly. When Kenobi doesn’t reach back, he reaches forward and takes his wrist. It’s not enthusiastic, but he doesn’t pull back again. Carefully maintaining eye contact, he turns Kenobi’s wrist until it’s facing upwards and he can draw his fingers across fine skin. For all that his hands are calloused, his wrists are soft. “I don’t think even you’re so polite that you’d stay if you didn’t want to.”

“Is- is that so?” Kenobi’s heavy robe has fallen open. Under two sets of wide sleeves, a third layer clings tightly to his forearms. It’s going to take Jango hours to get him out from under all those layers if this is what the rest of him is like. Though it does lend an image of the body beneath them. Leaner than the robes would suggest, a fencer's form, not a brawler’s. Kenobi might be an inch or two taller, but Jango’s get the width in his shoulders and chest that he doesn’t, and pound for pound, he has the advantage.

He’s lucky the kid is across the room: if Kenobi were here alone, Jango’d take him out back and have him against the closest wall.

He imagines Tyranus might disapprove.

“I think so,” Jango hums. His fingers reach the edges of Kenobi’s tight sleeves and pause. From the flustered, wide-eyed look on his face, you’d think Jango was giving him a completely different kind of attention. He’s unquestionably the easiest target Jango has ever had, his expression open and tentative and he _shudders_ when Jango slips his fingers under the edge of his tight sleeves, lashes fluttering closed and lips parting.

Jango smirks. Poor, touch starved little _jetii_.

Startled by his own reaction, Kenobi snatches his arm back and hugs it to his chest. “No! I’m a Jedi!”

Unconcerned, Jango picks up his caf and takes a mouthful before answering. “ _Jetii_ can’t have sex?”

“Of course we can!” he says, now almost the same shade of red as his hair.

“ _Jetii_ can’t have sex with Mandalorians?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So it’s just that _you_ don’t want to have sex. In general, or with me?”

Kenobi looks on the verge of passing out. “That’s not - I’m not - you’re-”

Jango sets his cup down and begins to rise. “If I’ve overstepped, please accept my sincerest apologies. I will leave you and your apprentice to your meal.”

This time, it’s Kenobi’s hand reaching for his. Fast reflexes - Jango doesn’t seem him move until they’ve made contact - but still gentle, as though Kenobi is consciously aware of how intimidating his skills might be.

He’s gone about this the wrong way if he wants to _fight_ Kenobi - and he really thinks he does - but after, maybe. Or hells, during. The tighter held the control, the more spectacular the unraveling.

“Stay?” Kenobi’s voice is soft and low, his pretty eyes bright under the overhead lights. “You haven’t overstepped. I am just... unused... to such attention. I don’t particularly understand it.”

Jango lets himself be pulled back into his seat. “Banthakark,” he laughs.

“Truly,” Kenobi says earnestly.

“Kenobi-”

“Obi-Wan,” he stresses.

“ _Obi-Wan_. I’ve wanted to do bad things with you from the second I saw you. I refuse to believe I’m the only person to have that reaction.”

Obi-Wan turns scarlet. “Anakin-”

“I would never presume so much in front of a child,” Jango assures him. “Which is why we are here and not in my hotel suite. Not that I am complaining. I appear to be enjoying your company.”

Obi-Wan blinks slowly and seems to be struggling to compute. “I... don’t dislike yours. You’re unlike anyone I have ever met before. No one has ever dared be so forward .”

Jango snorts. “You’re not that intimidating.”

“No, but my Master was,” Obi-Wan says, and in those words hides a world of hurt. Jango knows the fate of Qui-Gon Jinn, but can’t bring himself to use it as a weapon.

“Was?”

Obi-Wan pulls his arms in close and wraps them over his chest. “He died. Some weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Jango can’t mourn the death of a _jetii_ , but he understands the pain of losing a father and that common ground allows space for empathy.

Obi-Wan inclines his head gratefully. “I shouldn’t miss him. I should rejoice, for he is one with the Force.”

“ _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”_ Jango says. For all their many differences, the _jetii_ aren’t too dissimilar in their beliefs when it comes to a warrior’s fate after death. He says ‘one with the Force’, Jango says ‘not gone, merely marching ahead’, and somewhere they meet in agreement.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says with a soft smile. Shaking himself, he picks up his caf and uses it as a distraction. “Well, that about killed the mood.”

“Take your robe off,” Jango teases. “That’ll get me right back there.”

Obi-Wan’s laugh is bright, if a little scandalized, and his smile grows with each passing moment. “I’m not undressing in public.”

“I’ll take mine off?” Jango offers, already moving his hands towards his collar.

“And scandalize the Sundari Court?” Obi-Wan laughs.

“Fine,” Jango draws out his disappointment until Obi-Wan laughs again. “I’ll wait until we’re in private.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “And we’re right back on topic. You’re incorrigible.”

“Focused.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Persistent.”

“A menace!”

“A man who knows what he wants.”

Across the diner, Anakin erupts into wild cheers. “Yes! Yesssss!”

FLO the droid speeds to their table and refills both their cups. “Food’s on the way, boys! Can I get you anything else?” Her arrival spells the end of their current conversation. He means what he said: he won’t pressure Obi-Wan in front of his student. Looking over to see Anakin bounding towards them, a wide smile plastered on his face, Jango reaches into his pocket, pulls out a data chip, and slides it into Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Tonight,” he whispers. “Come see how much I know what I want.”

Obi-Wan stares at him, his fingers curling around the chip.

“Master! Master! I fixed her, did you see? Did you see?” Anakin’s return is. A bomb going off behind Obi-Wan’s eyes. He slips the chip into his pocket and turns a smile on his apprentice.

“Inside voices, Anakin,” he scolds before softening. “I saw. Good job. I’m sure Hermione and Dex will be very appreciative.”

“Free sundaes,” Jango grins. Maybe he can get the kid to look over his central computer on Slave I before leaving?

Anakin drops dramatically down onto the bench beside his Master. “What’s a sundae?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've bumped the rating up to Explicit (and oh boy, is it...)
> 
> Ok look, this is mostly just a chapter of super unsafe and semi-violent sex between two very athletic and well-trained idiots. Jango's moral compass is currently fucked and he absolutely deserves everything coming to him. That said, Obi-Wan is also a menace.

Firing off a preliminary report to Tyranus, Jango turns to the data files waiting for his approval. The Kaminoans are impressively thorough, elusive with their own processes, but endlessly curious as to his training plans. The first batch of clones won’t be due for another three months, but there seems to be no end to the preliminary work they expect him to see to.

It can wait. Nothing in there demands his urgent attention, and Tyranus _did_ say to make Obi-Wan his priority until the first of the clones are old enough to begin their training.

He sets aside the datapad and leans back against the headboard of the hotel’s indulgently oversized bed.

There’s no guarantee Obi-Wan will come to him tonight. Jango is confident, but there’s no accounting for that skittish _jetii_ prudishness.

He’s sent for food and refreshments, both of which sit in climate-controlled pods on the large table in the adjacent living space. Tyranus is footing the bill, so Jango has ordered a brandy he knows Obi-Wan won’t have indulged in before, as well as a selection of exotic fruits. He’s not a complete monster. If he’s going to defile himself a _jetii_ , he can at least make sure the poor bastard doesn’t pass out for the wrong reasons. If nothing else, the brandy might make the process easier - for both of them. If Obi-Wan is truly that inexperienced, a drink will grease the gears.

He’ll be gentle, he thinks, imagining Obi-Wan prone on the bed beside him, flushed and pretty and aching for Jango’s touch. No need to scare him. Not yet, at least. 

So gentle. There’ll be time to break him in properly later.

The hour grows steadily late. He has no idea how jetii timekeeping works, or if they have to do things at certain times of the day, and feels himself growing restless as the hours pass.

Shortly before twelfth hour, the chime to his door rings.

Jango doesn’t rush to open it. He pointedly _doesn’t rush._

But there Obi-Wan is, stepping into his hotel room and closing the door behind him.

“I’m glad you came,” Jango says, hiding a smirk with a softer, kinder smile.

Obi-Wan backs him against the wall and slides a warm hand across the side of his neck. Jango gets just enough warning to throw him completely off-kilter before there’s a mouth against his, Obi-Wan’s lips soft and firm and _very_ demanding. There’s no world under this sun or any other in which he _hasn’t_ kissed someone before, his lips moving against Jango’s with practiced confidence. Jango tries to think of a time - any time - when he’s been kissed so thoroughly, his brain firing off too many signals to compute at the brush of Obi-Wan’s tongue against his own.

He’s just about capable of gathering up enough stray brain cells to conclude that _maybe_ he’s misread the situation. Obi-Wan is clearly no blushing innocent. Fine. Fine, that’s okay. That’s more than okay. He can recalculate, re-

“What the _kriff_ -” he pushes Obi-Wan back, his heart hammering in his ears and his lungs practically on fire. Obi-Wan doesn’t seem perturbed, merely directing his attention to Jango’s throat instead. “What are you- _oh_ -” the rest of his question morphs into a jumbled collection of curses and prayers as Obi-Wan slides a hand under the hem of his shirt and presses strong fingers against the bare skin of Jango’s stomach. Which - nice. Skin contact is great, and Obi-Wan is still swaddled in his stupid robes. But... _kriffing hells_ , there’s something about his touch that feels unnaturally _good_. He brushes light fingers over the cut of Jango’s abdominals and it feels like there’s a thread going straight to his cock that Obi-Wan has just tugged, and-

_Kriffing jetii._

Jango finds his wits and snatches Obi-Wan’s offending hand, twisting it sharply and using it as leverage to reverse their places. Now he has Obi-Wan pressed face-first against the wall, one hand pressed enticingly against the flat surface by his shoulder, the other angled tightly behind his back.

“Don’t,” Jango warns gruffly, furious and turned on in equal measure, “even think about using any of your tricks on me, _jet’ika_.”

Obi-Wan makes no attempt to free himself from Jango’s hold. If anything, it almost feels as though he’s indulging him.

“Or what?” he asks coyly. His hair is too short to provide a good grip, and so Jango wraps a hand around his throat instead, pulling him back sharply until his spine arches and he can look over his shoulder. That sweet, pretty flush and soft mouth are still there, still writing sonnets of innocence, but that spark Jango has only seen glimpses of now flashes brightly in his eyes, warm and teasing and devious.

'Or what' is a very good question. The part of Jango that knows better than to blindly stumble down the dark paths of a sharp mission divergence is telling him to back off and regroup. To come back with a less risky approach.

It collides with the stubborn refusal to give _any_ kind of ground to a _jetii_.

And beneath both warring factions, a small, lonely part of his soul is screaming in excitement.

When he doesn’t answer, Obi-Wan starts to look hesitant. “You know I’m a Jedi. Is this - do you not want...”

Jango doesn’t know what the kriff he wants right now, at least beyond getting Obi-Wan out of at least two layers of clothing.

He releases Obi-Wan’s wrist and takes a step back. Gathers himself. Then removes his shirt.

“Anything you’re still wearing in the next twenty seconds is going to get torn off,” he warns.

Obi-Wan’s thick brown robe hits the ground first. Then his boots. He curls bare toes in the thick pile of the hotel carpet, and Jango distracts himself with the curve of pale ankles before dragging his eyes up the body quickly being unveiled for him.

When he finally - _finally, sweet kriffing stars -_ gets down to the last, thin layer of his undershirt, Jango loses his patience.

There’s something very unbalancing about stalking up to a man who can arguably kill him with his mind. Jango is used to being the predator, and everything about Obi-Wan _should_ scream prey, and yet -

“You’re still wearing your-” Obi-Wan starts, only for Jango to cut him off with a forceful kiss. He’s the furthest thing from gentle, and the sharp, coppery taste of blood might be from either of them. The soft little sound of protest Obi-Wan makes when Jango reaches up and tears his undershirt clean down the middle doesn’t make it past the seal of Jango’s lips. He wraps his fingers around Jango’s wrists before he can get his hands on Obi-Wan’s pants. It’s a strong grip. Bruising. Nothing about him suggests he has any right to be _so_ strong.

Obi-Wan is slender. His muscles, though well defined, aren’t particularly large. Jango is broader, heavier, and he can benchpress two of Obi-Wan on a good day. Which in no way explains why he hasn’t a chance in hell of breaking free of that grip.

It’s... well... it’s something.

His pants are past the point of discomfort now, and he’s eager to regain control of whatever the kriffing hells this actually is. He bites down hard on Obi-Wan’s bottom lip and seizes the moment when he hisses in pain and his grip loosens.

That coy, glassy-eyed innocence is back and Jango furious with himself for ever thinking that Obi-Wan is anything other than what he is. A _jetii_.

With a low growl, he grabs Obi-Wan by the arm and flings him around to land in an undignified sprawl on the bed. “No,” he says, unsure if he’s truly angry or just impossibly on edge, “my room, my rules. I’m in control here.” He follows through be plastering himself over Obi-Wan’s back, his body weight pressing him down into the bedding.

It’s awkward, but Obi-Wan manages to turn his cheek to the mattress and smile at Jango out of the corner of his eye. “Is that so?”

Jango bites down on the crook of his neck in answer. Now he has Obi-Wan pinned down properly, he feels a little less like the world is spiraling out of control.

He has wanted to fight Obi-Wan. And he has been open to the idea of mixing that fight with sex. But honestly? This isn’t exactly _how_ he imagined it.

He pushes a hand between Obi-Wan’s shoulderblades and keeps him firmly pressed down. “If you don’t cheat.”

“Would you rather I yield?”

“Kriff no,” Jango says, reaching over to the supplies he’s set out on the side table. It’s a stretch, but Obi-Wan obediently stays where Jango has put him. “I’ll make you a deal-” he unfastens his pants and finally frees his aching cock. Smearing his hand with oil, he gives himself a leisurely stroke and allows himself the indulgence of admiring the body trapped beneath his. Small constellations of freckles cluster at Obi-Wan shoulders, but the rest of him is smooth and pale. Jango’s fingerprints have already left faint smudges of colored bruises on his arms and the junction of his throat looks red and sore. If Jango were an artistic man, he might consider this his canvas. Instead, he imagines new ways to draw flushes of color to the surface. “You use those special powers of yours if - and only if - I do something you don’t like. Otherwise, you be a good _jet’ika_ for me.”

The muscles in Obi-Wan’s back ripple as he arches his spine and presses his ass back against Jango’s crotch. “So what’s stopping me from using them now?”

There’s something darkly alluring in the idea of tearing the _jetii’s_ pants the same way he has his undershirt - a twisted little visual in the idea of sending him away when they are done, clutching his ruined clothes and wearing the bruises Jango has given him.

He reaches between Obi-Wan’s hips and the bed, brushes the heel of his palm against the straining flesh beneath the tight fabric, and tugs roughly at the fastenings.

So he wants to fuck the _jetii_ until he forgets his name and his creed and everything to do with his Order. He wants to hurt him, just a little, and he wants to hear him sob Jango’s name as he comes.

He doesn’t want to humiliate him. And he definitely doesn’t want others looking at his disheveled form and imagining him like this.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this. Where’s that sweet, blushing virgin from this afternoon, huh?” He lifts up enough to drag Obi-Wan’s pants over his hips, but is too impatient to remove them altogether. Between the fabric and Jango’s own thighs, it gets those long, strong legs well restrained.

Obi-Wan actually laughs. “I never said I was a virgin!”

“That’s good,” Jango nods, gathering more oil on his fingers and running them teasingly down the line of his spine. “Or else this would really suck for you.” He’s not unkind when he shoves the first of his fingers inside Obi-Wan, but he’s sure as kriff not gentle about it, either. Obi-Wan turns his face into the bedding and mufflers his cry, fingers tightening in silken sheets and knuckles blanching white.

He might not be a virgin, but he is tight and Jango doesn’t want to hurt him.

He does. Just not _badly_. Not like that.

He’ll also go kriffing crazy if he doesn’t fuck Obi-Wan _soon_ , so he’s liberal with the oil and thorough in his preparation, trusting the fact that Obi-Wan can throw him across the room with his mind if he really wants to. It’s an almost freeing realization, knowing that he doesn’t have to hold back, that he can push without fear of pushing too far. By the time he has three fingers inside Obi-Wan, the _jetii_ is trying valiantly to thrust back against him.

Better. _This_ is more of what he had in mind. Desperate and writhing beneath him, desperate for Jango’s -

If Obi-Wan was considerate with his reflexes in the diner, he’s anything but now. Jango loses all sense of gravity as the world spins around him. One moment he’s got a _jetii_ squirming beneath him, the next he is on his back, his head cracking painfully against the headboard. Before he can even start to gather his senses, Obi-Wan is kicking his leggings off completely and climbing into Jango’s lap.

“You were taking too long,” he says by way of explanation, one hand on Jango’s shoulder, holding him firmly against the headboard, the other reaching behind him to steady himself as he sinks slowly down on Jango’s cock.

None of the curses Jango throws at him are particularly coherent. Doesn’t kriffing matter. He snaps his teeth and snarls, head falling back against the board behind him and his fingers digging sharply into Obi-Wan’s hips.

His heart might be about to beat out of his chest and his breathing is heavy and labored. Obi-Wan is barely out of breath, muscles gleaming under a fine layer of sweat, flexing with each roll of his hips. He tries to reach for his cock as he sets his own pace, using Jango for his pleasure just as Jango planned to use him.

Kriff that. Kriff that, and kriff him.

Surging forwards, he wraps his arms tightly around Obi-Wan’s chest, pinning him close and slamming him down until there is no space between them.

There it is again. Wide eyes. Parted lips. A picture of innocence hiding a kriffing tornado of passion below the surface. Tyranus can launch himself into the closest kriffing sun. The only place Jango is taking Obi-Wan Kenobi is his own bed.

Obi-Wan squirms in his arms, desperate, broken little sounds tumbling from his lips before Jango captures them with his own.

He loosens his hold and guides Obi-Wan’s arms around his neck.

He hasn’t been this kriffing athletic in the bedroom in years, but he’s not about to cede to a _jetii_. Not even one who looks at Jango with fire in his eyes and whimpers so sweetly in his ear. He reaches down, hooks his forearms under Obi-Wan’s thighs, and rolls them sideways off the bed.

There’s a split second when he fears his knees might not hold, but after a hasty stumble, he’s able to slam Obi-Wan back against the closest surface.

The window this time, floor to ceiling, and looking out across the city. Jango flexes his hips and takes full advantage of Obi-Wan’s flexibility to fuck him hard against the transparisteel surface. Over the _jetii’s_ shoulder, Jango can see the lights of the Temple, bright and dominating against the skyline.

Now that’s a pretty sight right there.

“Come on,” he demands, biting at the bruise he’s already painted on Obi-Wan’s neck. He’ll have his own bruises from this. He’ll wear them with pride. “Come. Come for me, _jet’ika_.”

Obi-Wan writhes, his head thrown back against the window, his thighs tense and trembling. He doesn’t have enough leverage to let go of Jango and take himself in hand, and the press of Jango’s abs against his cock is more of a tease than anything.

So Jango finds himself doing something he’s never done before.

With a grunt, he shoves away from the window and dumps Obi-Wan down on the bed. Keeping his feet on the floor for leverage, Jango snatches his wrists again, stopping him from seeking completion. The more Obi-Wan strains against his hold, wild and desperate now, the better leverage Jango has to fuck him harder. So he does. Fast and deep, until he finds his own release and empties himself inside the _jetii’s_ trembling body.

Then he falls to his knees and takes Obi-Wan’s straining cock into his mouth.

Obi-Wan lasts seconds and comes with a broken cry. Jango doesn’t let him fall from his mouth until he’s licked away every drop of his release.

Then he turns, puts his back to the side of the bed, and tries to catch his breath.

He’s been in less exhausting battles.

“That -” Obi-Wan pants, “that was - oh - nice. That was nice.”

Nice, he says. Bastard _jetii_. Jango’s pretty sure he’s strained something. He grunts in response, wondering if he even has the energy to crawl to the fresher. He needs to take care of Obi-Wan before he cleans himself up, but kriff...

Obi-Wan’s calves vanish from beside him. A moment later he peers over the edge of the bed and smiles. “So,” he says, having caught his breath faster than anyone has any right to. “Round two?”

* * *

Jango is face down on the bed and snoring softly when Obi-Wan leaves him several hours later. It takes longer than expected to dress and he aches in a way he hasn’t in a very long time. It’s similar to the kind of pain he experiences after a long day in the training salles, but secret, more intimate, and he smiles to himself as he leaves a message on the digital display beside the bed.

“I thought _mando’ade_ had better stamina than that,” he writes, then signs off with “OWK” and his comm code. If that doesn’t get a reaction, nothing will.

The hotel is a discrete one, but Obi-Wan is still careful to avoid attracting attention as he leaves, walking several blocks away before calling a cab to take him back to the Temple.

It’s close to 5th hour by the time he arrives at his door, meaning he has only thirty minutes or so before Anakin is awake and creating mayhem. Caf instead of tea for firstmeal, then a nice, long meditation. Perhaps having something new to focus on will give him guidance where he has recently been struggling.

He’s unsurprised to find Master Windu awake and in a light meditation when he steps into his rooms. Anakin is too young to stay unsupervised all night, and the boy gets frightened when left alone.

“I take it you were successful,” Windu says, opening one eye to study Obi-Wan before rising gracefully to his feet.

“The bait has been taken, at least,” Obi-Wan says. “Now we just need to see who is holding the hook.”

It’s a little insulting, really, but he supposes it shows just how little Mandalorians think of the Jedi. As if he wouldn’t know Jango Fett when he sees him. As if he’s not been intimately familiar with the political players of Mandalore since before he first met Satine.

Wearing Kryze insignia was clearly a ploy to draw his attention and set him at ease, and people have been trying to murder him for the past twelve years - he’s intimately familiar with the look that level of hatred brings.

The moment he dropped Anakin off with the crechemaster, he was requesting an emergency meeting with the Council.

“I’ll say this again, Kenobi,” Mace says, looking him up and down and scowling. “You are under no obligation to sleep with a man who most likely wants you dead.”

“I will follow my instincts, Master,” Obi-Wan says serenely. “Fett wants something from me, and I doubt that something is as simple as mere sex.”

“Hmm,” Windu agrees. “Just know this wasn’t the first mission the Council intended to give you.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “Still. I will pull on the thread and see where it leads.”

Windu looks him up and down carefully. Of all the Masters to be kind to Obi-Wan in the wake of Qui-Gon's death, Windu has perhaps been the most surprising. “Very well. Let us know when he makes contact again. Do not take unnecessary risks.”

“It’ll be a few hours, I imagine,” Obi-Wan says, thinking of Jango asleep in the hotel. “I will let you know. Thank you for watching Anakin.”

Windu shudders and looks vaguely traumatized. “Yeah, next time you’re asking Master Plo.”

Obi-Wan fights back a chuckle. “Yes, my Master.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter was the cliff edge in which Jango took a dive from, this would be the messy landing at the bottom. 
> 
> Poor, poor, poor Jango. He never stood a chance.

Jango runs his fingers through the soft copper strands of Obi-Wan’s hair. It’s grown out a lot in the past two months, now curling enticingly over his forehead and ears. It’s long enough for Jango to grab hold of when they fuck, and for him to play with in moments like these. They haven’t bothered with clothes, opting instead to sprawl out onto the rumpled bedsheets. Obi-Wan is laid comfortably between Jango’s legs, his head resting just above his stomach. One hand is curled around Jango’s knee, his fingers lightly tracing the thick scar that cuts across Jango’s kneecap.

“Durasteel spike,” Jango hums absently, tracing his finger around the shell of Obi-Wan’s ear. “Went right through my leg when I was sixteen. Took half the _baar’ure_ in Sundari to fix me up again.

“Ouch.” The heating in the room is on high to ward off any chill, and they’re both too comfortable - and content - to move. Obi-Wan has already abused those magic powers of his to levitate a tray of fresh fruits from the table to the bed, and now Jango takes his time absently feeding him small cuts of sweet, exotic fruits. Some of them are messier than others, and Obi-Wan isn’t shy about sucking Jango’s fingers into his mouth to catch any dripping juice. The first few times they did this was enough incentive for Jango to put him on his back and slide his cock into that teasing mouth instead, but by now he thinks he enjoys _this_ almost as much as he enjoys that.

And he _really_ enjoys that. Either they’re teaching _jetii_ how to suck cock, or Obi-Wan is just exceptionally gifted at _everything_ he turns his mind to.

Seven tendays. That’s how long Jango has been pursuing his _jetii_. Obi-Wan hasn’t visited him every day - he’s busy, and Jango occasionally needs to pretend to be in order to keep up the ruse - but he’s come often enough for Jango to know every sound he makes when he comes. They’ve tested every surface, every item of furniture, and many of them more than once. There isn’t an inch of Obi-Wan he hasn’t committed to memory. He knows him in the dark. He thinks he’ll still know him in a hundred years time.

“You don’t have so many scars,” Jango muses, drawing his fingers around to brush the back of Obi-Wan’s neck and the one scar he _does_ have. He’s rewarded with a contented hum and a languid stretch of the long limbs in his arms.

“Jedi Healers are exceptional,” he admits. “Occasionally terrifying, but exceptional. Somedays I think I would be very ugly if they weren’t so competent.”

Jango finds himself frowning. He doesn’t like the idea of Obi-Wan being hurt, and he doesn't like the idea of him calling himself ugly even less. He’s beautiful. As beautiful as the sun that paints fire-dance patterns on the blood-red stones of Sundari’s ancient war halls. Scars could not distract from that. “They didn’t heal this one.” The raised flesh under his fingers forms an unclosed circle right above his spine. A nasty wound, one barely hidden by his tunic.

Obi-Wan rolls himself over in Jango’s arms and positions himself more comfortably against his chest, his chin against Jango’s sternum. “I asked them not to.”

Jango isn’t about to let something like a little change in position stop him from playing with Obi-Wan’s hair. Now he just has the added bonus of close proximity to those deadly blue eyes of his.

Did he really once think of this man as _ordinary_ looking?

“It’s old,” Jango points out, gently working his fingers into the small bundle of muscles just above the scar.

“About thirteen years old,” Obi-Wan-Wan agrees. He seems to be distracted by the idea of playing with one of Jango’s nipples, which - Jango isn’t the only biter in their relationship and they’re kriffing sore. He tugs sharply on a lock of Obi-Wan’s hair in a warning and is flashed a devilish little smile in response.

“So... preteen Obi-Wan Kenobi was the kind of badass that asked his _baar’ure_ to leave him with a scar? I'm starting to think you deserve everything you're getting with Anakin.”

Obi-Wan groans and drops his forehead onto Jango’s chest. “You know he set fire to one of the mats in the junior training salle this morning? There’s nothing in there even remotely flammable!”

“Kid’s just creative,” Jango shrugs, wrapping both arms around his lover. Obi-Wan hasn’t brought Anakin to see him again - which...understandable - but he’ll speak of the boy when Jango asks and through his affectionate, often despairing retellings of Anakin’s exploits, Jango almost feels as though he knows the boy.

That’s only right, of course. Anakin is Obi-Wan’s _adiik,_ and Jango is Obi-Wan’s...

The tension that floods his body doesn’t go unnoticed by his _jetii_.

“Sex is _supposed_ to be relaxing,” he frowns, running a hand over Jango’s shoulder and down his bicep. “So why do you still feel so tense? Are we not having _enough_ sex?”

Jango’s bark of disbelieving laugher only deepens Obi-Wan’s unhappy expression. “If we had any more sex, neither of us would ever leave this room.” And isn’t that a nice fantasy?

“True,” Obi-Wan groans. “I can’t imagine the Council would be too thrilled. They’ve already taking to cautioning me on a daily basis.”

“No fucking the dashingly handsome Mand’ad?” Jango snorts.

“No getting _attached_ to the dashingly handsome Mando’ad,” Obi-Wan corrects.

Jango’s heart skips a beat. “Are you getting attached to me, _jet’ika_?”

“Parts of you,” Obi-Wan teases, rolling his hips until they brush against Jango’s cock. There’s not a sweet chance in hells of him getting it up again tonight, but that doesn’t stop him groaning.

And it doesn’t dampen his disappointment. It’s not like he expects Obi-Wan to say _yes_. Yes, he’s attached. Yes, he feels something for Jango.

It’s... that’s... well, it’s the mission. To distract him. To force a division between Obi-Wan and the Temple, to get under his skin and search out his weaknesses.

Equally as worn out as Jango, Obi-Wan sighs and rests his head against his shoulder. He’s done that a few times, fallen asleep in Jango’s arms. Not often. He usually has to get back. But when he _does_. When Jango wakes up with him pressed tightly against his chest, soft and unguarded and trusting...

When he lets Jango into his body. When he makes himself _vulnerable_ to someone who is only there to decieve him... that’s when it hurts Jango to breathe. It’s when he pulls Obi-Wan in closer and when his turmoil stirs the _jetii_ from his sleep. And it’s when Obi-Wan sleepily presses his lips to Jango’s and snuggles in _closer_.

Seven tendays and Jango has never failed a mission. He’s never _not_ delivered.

And he can’t start now. No matter how warm Obi-Wan is in his arms, no matter how he _smiles_ at Jango in the quiet moments of the night.

Jango _will_ deliver him to Tyranus, and when he does, he will seer the betrayal it paints on Obi-Wan’s face onto his soul. It will become just another scar.

He just needs a little longer. To be certain Obi-Wan is ready.

“Darling...” the worry in Obi-Wan’s voice is tangible. “Alright, enough of this.” He sits, removing the warmth of his body from Jango’s.

The needy sound Jango makes is mortifying, but what does he care?

“As spectacular as your ass is-”

“Yours isn’t too bad, either,” Obi-Wan says with an indulgent smile, skillfully manhandling Jango onto his stomach and climbing back up to straddle the backs of his thighs. “Now stop moaning.”

Jango has never allowed - or wanted - another man to take him. He’s never felt the need to be that vulnerable with another person, but if Obi-Wan wants that, if he asks...

A warm kiss is pressed to the back of his neck. “Not tonight, _cyar’ika,”_ he says, a heated breath drawing a shiver down Jango’s spine as it ghosts against his skin. “You’ve quite exhausted me.”

He's not disappointed. He's _not._

“Why do I doubt that?” Jango says, pulling the closest pillow under his head and wrapping his arms around that instead. It’s not as warm, not as soft, not as... “Nngh.” The firm press of strong fingers below his shoulder blades forces another reluctant sound from his throat. “What are you - oh kriff, again, right there-” he feels something _give_ under Obi-Wan’s fingers, a knot long set deep into muscle easing and relaxing without protest merely because his _jetii_ has commanded it.

“You are _very_ tense,” Obi-Wan scolds.

“M’not.”

“I’ve met less rigid droids.” Any protest Jango is about to make vanishes under a brutally firm press close to his armpit. For a second, the pain is blinding. As fast as it flares up, something warm and languid quickly moves in to take its place. “I can make it even better,” Obi-Wan whispers. “If you’ll let me?”

He’s talking about those _jetii_ magics of his. “Whatever you want,” Jango mutters into the pillow. He’s never broken under torture, but thirty seconds under Obi-Wan’s hands and he’s willing to give him anything and everything he wants.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, his voice low and very soft. “For trusting me.”

Shame stabs him sharply in the gut.

It doesn’t get the chance to take hold. All of the tension he’s carrying - the pain he’s accepted as normal - suddenly becomes effervescent light inside of him. Obi-Wan pours _life_ into him, soothing and gentle and seeking all the dark spaces in his head and his heart and bathing them with living, breathing stardust. Is this what he feels when he touches that Force of his? Is this what he strives towards?

Is it what _all_ jetii strive towards?

He looks over his shoulder. Obi-Wan is haloed by an overhead light and for a moment, Jango swears their souls touch.

“Easy,” Obi-Wan gentles him, “it can be overwhelming for someone who isn’t Force-sensitive. Let me take care of you, Jango. Trust yourself to the Light: it will not hurt you.”

 _I will not hurt you_. That’s what he means. What he believes.

As he is slowly brought back down from that brief, overwhelming high, he sinks back into his body, boneless and weightless. His skin tingles and his heart pounds in his ear and he _should_ be frightened by that kind of power. But Obi-Wan looks so hopeful and so earnest.

Jango has struggled to reconcile the wide-eyed, blushing man from the museum with the utterly shameless creature he has in his bed at night, but above Jango now, he finally sees the unification of the man they call Sith Killer. He’s all and none of the beings Jango has tried to categorize him as.

And he’s _good_. His heart is kind and it is gentle, and something primal and fierce rises from the ashes of the pain that has been stripped from his body.

Jango will kill for this _jetii_. He will die for him if he must.

And more important than either of those things, Jango Fett will fail for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being on opposite ends of the galaxy, Jango and Obi-Wan continue to be Soft.

_“Absolutely not!”_ Obi-Wan’s dignified little huff of offense manages to be even more endearing over a long-range transmission. “ _I have never once in my life set fire to a revered Master’s robes, and certainly not while he was wearing them!”_ The signal is too poor to present Jango with a crystal clear image of Obi-Wan via the holoprojector, but by this point, he already knows the minute little twitch of the _jetii’s_ left eye when an Anakin related headache is about to set in. Six months into Temple life and the kid seems to have found his feet in a way that’s probably going to send Obi-Wan to an early grave with stress.

Jango leans back against his bunk on Kamino and misses the comfort of the extremely indulgent bed he’s been spoiled with these last few tendays. He misses having Obi-Wan curled up against him, his skin warm and flushed from Jango’s worship. Kriff, he even misses the balmy heat of Coruscant. Kamino is just wet. Perpetually kriffing wet. “See now, you say that, but I don’t believe for a second you weren’t just a different kind of terror.” Anakin’s special brand of chaos seems to be arson and explosives, something Jango can appreciate, but Obi-Wan’s far too practiced at batting those pretty eyes of his to _not_ have had cause to perfect the skill.

 _“The worst thing I ever did was pull a prank on Master Drallig with Quinlan - and Master Yoda was the genius behind that one,_ ” Obi-Wan says primly. He’s curled up on a small, overstuffed couch, his feet tucked under a cushion and a mug of tea clutched to his chest. The holo flickers with the distance, but his soft smile is still enough to warm Jango’s heart. He catches himself imagining a world where he can slide himself in the space between Obi-Wan and the arm of the couch, where it’s not just acceptable, but normal to sit with him on a slow evening, warm and content and relaxed. The fact that it’s Obi-Wan’s world Jango wants to be allowed into and not the other way around... well that just says how badly he’s miscalculated.

“Why don’t I believe that?” Jango snorts. Across the room, rain streaks chaotic patterns onto the window and he watches several beads of water roll across the transparisteeel surface.

 _“You’re a very skeptical man,”_ Obi-Wan replies.

“I’m a very _lonely_ man,” Jango shoots back. “Next time I travel for business, I’m putting in a request for a _jetii_ escort.”

 _“Oh to be a fly on the wall when the Seate gets that one,”_ Obi-Wan grins. “ _Are you saying you miss me?”_

“I’m saying the company leaves much to be desired. I’d rather have you in my bed than halfway across the Galaxy.”

“ _About that,”_ Obi-Wan says slowly, _“I’m afraid I won’t be on Coruscant when you get back.”_

Jango has to crush down the urge to tense up. This has always been a possibility. Obi-Wan has been Temple bound while Anakin settles into his new life - and while Obi-Wan recovers from the trauma of his last mission. It’s a reprieve that was never going to last forever.

“New mission?” He plays it cool instead, letting out a slow breath and reminding himself that Obi-Wan leaving on a mission isn’t actually the end of the world.

_“Hmmm. I don’t believe it will be a particularly long or complicated one, but I’m informed I’m not the best judge of these things.”_

“There’s a story there,” Jango says, wanting to keep the conversation going as long as possible.

 _“Oh, there are several,”_ Obi-Wan laughs. _“Many involving pirates.”_

“Yeah, try avoid those.”

 _“I’d rather not bring Anakin into any fights just yet,”_ Obi-Wan agrees.

Personally, Jango feels a great swell of pity for any pirates crossing Anakin’s path. Or Obi-Wan’s for that matter.

“You’ll be careful?” Jango speaks the words before he’s even aware of them, and he can see the surprise on Obi-Wan’s expression even via the holo.

_“Of course.”_

“And when you”re back?” Jango asks, wondering if it's at all possible to sound _needier_ than he already does.

 _“Oh,”_ Obi-Wan’s smile is luminous, _“I’m sure I can think of something to make up for lost time.”_

Better, Jango thinks. It’s _much_ better to focus on that - on how it’s just sex, how it can _only_ be just sex - than to dwell on just how much Jango wants to end the call with the words ‘I love you’.

* * *

For all that Jango has been playing at the Mandalore politician, in truth, it’s been years since he’s seen his home. Concord Dawn is little more than a memory to him now, a place held close to his heart along with the memories of Arla and his _buire._ Even Sundari and the many cities he visited at Jaster’s side are little more than abstract concepts of _places_. His connections to them have been severed: by _Kyr'tsad_ , by the _Jetiise_ , and by his own shame.

But while he might not have been home in years, he’s encountered his fair share of _Mando’ade_. Most know who he is and most give him a wide berth because of it. Kal Skirata is, sadly, not one of them. It’s for that reason, more than any, that Jango invites him to Kamino.

The Kaminoans have done their job - six perfect clones have been decanted for testing and another hundred are soon to follow - and now it’s Jango’s turn to fulfill his side of the bargain. He’s not been entirely idle while waiting around for Obi-Wan to visit him.

With the arrival of Kal the _Cuy'val Dar_ begins its formation _._ The elite group Jango is assembling to train what will eventually become the Grand Army of the Republic will - assuming all he’s invited answer the summons - consist of seventy-five _ori'ramikade_ and another twenty-five of the toughest bastards he’s encountered over the years. Roughly half of them have tried to kill him at one point or another, Kal included.

Jango tells himself that _this_ is why he focuses his attention on Kal, and not the six small figures waiting at attention.

This batch ages at more than twice the natural rate. They’re not even a year old, but already they can walk and run. If Jango looks at them for too long, his chest feels tight.

“Just what the galaxy needs,” Kal says, bypassing a greeting and eying the clones critically, “more of Jango Fett.”

“Jango tested in the top percentile of baseline warriors,” Nala Se says serenely. The Head Scientist on this little science project towers over both Jango and Kal, and the recruits barely reach her knees.

Jango lifts a smug eyebrow. He’s beaten Kal in a fight twice now and enjoyed every second of both fights.

“Oh aye,” Kal agrees. “If you’re talking SpecOps. Kriffing kark infantryman though.” Kal’s a gruff, grizzly Kuatian adopted into clan Skirata, just as Jango was adopted into Clan Mereel. Unlike Jango, he’s got the pale blue eyes and sandy brown hair of many of the Usurpers to go with his broad shoulders and tall frame.

“There’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Jango snorts. He has no fear that past animosity will bring them back into conflict - Kal is an honorable man and a contract is a contract - but there’s no love loss between them. That’s fine: Jango’s not here to make friends. He’s here to...

Well. He’s here.

Kal flashes him a rough grin, a peace offering and a mockery all in one. “Truth’s the truth. No skin off my nose in admitting you’re probably the best I’ve met. But you can’t take orders for shit and you’ve never been one for rank and file.”

That’s... well, it’s not _in_ accurate. “That’s why I’ve hired you,” Jango says sourly. “You’re great at it.”

Kal gives him a grumbled growl as a response, then turns his attention to the recruits.

“Jango, if I might request your attention?” Nala Se extends one of her long, slender arms towards the doors and gestures them through. They leave Kal to make his introductions to the six clones, and Jango finds it easier to breathe when he doesn’t have to look at them.

As flattering as ‘we’d like to base our entire army off your genetic structure’ is, it hasn’t prepared him for the sheer shock of seeing children - infants, really - with his face. Now the weight of his choice settles uncomfortably in his gut. He was eight years old when he made his first kill - when Death Watch came for his parents and made sport out of hunting his people. He’s always sworn that any children he has will be protected. That they’ll be of age _before_ they see their first battle.

The clones aren’t his children, but...

No. No buts. He shakes himself and recenters his focus. He has a job to do.

Following Nala Se to the labs, he can't help but marvel at the sheer scale of the project being built around them. Soon, 100 Alpha clones will be fast-tracked, and then...

She leads him towards a brightly lit section of the lab, where three of her colleagues are working.

One of them, without word or ceremony, turns and pushes a small, blanket swaddled infant into his arms.

“As requested,” he says tonelessly. “One genetically identical, fully null clone.”

Jango holds live ammunition with less terror than he feels for this small being. Tentatively drawing back the edge of the blanket, he gets his first look at the only thing he has demanded in exchange for the next ten years of his life.

The recruits aren’t decated until they are well beyond the nine months of natural gestation, but this infant is a perfect, healthy, newborn. Even wrapped in the blanket, his head doesn’t fill Jango’s palm, and his whole body barely stretches the length of his forearm. He’s _tiny_ and fragile and helpless and in what kriffing world did Jango think he could ever be capable of taking care of anything so small and so precious?

“Hello, Boba,” he whispers. He's not expected them to give him the boy so _soon,_ but now he has him... "How are we going to explain you to Obi-Wan, huh?"

* * *

“Do you have a location, Obi-Wan?” Ki Adi Mundi is the first to respond once Obi-Wan has finished delivering his latest report to the Council.

“I traced the call but its point of origin is not listed in the Archives. it’s possible he’s on a deep space platform and is rerouting all communications.” Obi-Wan tucks his hands into the sleeves of his robes and settles in for questioning. The Council has been patient with his lack of progress, but he finds himself struggling to emulate their serenity. Any hopes that Jango’s abrupt departure from the hotel ten days prior might spark the next stage of whatever plan he might have has been firmly thwarted by the comm call from the other side of the galaxy. Whatever Jango’s motivations are, he’s still not ready to reveal his motivations and Obi-Wan is honestly at a loss as to why.

“He’s still given you no indication of what it is he wants?” Mace asks. For all his protests, he is still the one who watches Anakin while Obi-Wan is with Jango. He already knows the answer, but he asks for the sake of others on the Council.

“No, Master. Whatever speculation we have made in the past, it seems he’s in no rush to spring his trap.” Obi-Wan pauses and considers his next words carefully. “The hate that I felt in him when he first revealed himself is less potent now, and he’s certainly had both time and opportunity to harm me should that be his desire.”

The worst Jango has in fact done is bite a little _too_ hard at Obi-Wan’s collar bone and broken the skin. Obi-Wan thinks _he’s_ probably drawn more blood during their entanglements.

“Be mindful of your feelings, Obi-Wan,” Mace warns him.

Master Plo Koon inclines his head. “It is rare for a Jedi to indulge in carnal activities with one outside the Order to quite the extent you have with Fett. Be careful you do not allow familiarity to blind you to his intentions.”

Obi-Wan bows his head respectfully. “Yes, Master.”

“Concerning, this is,” Yoda muses, his clawed hand tapping lightly on the arm of his chair.

“It was concerning eight tendays ago,” Mace says, his voice and expression dry. “And we can’t rule out a possible attempt to leverage Knight Kenobi against the Mandalorian government, given his status in Sundari.”

“Duchess Satine would never parlay for my life should Jango attempt to ransom me,” Obi-Wan says. He’s already thought of that. He has no personal connection to Jango or any of his family, not outside a faint lineage line between himself and his Master’s Master. “Besides, if Jango wanted to reclaim Mandalore, all he needs to do is let his people know he’s alive. The Dutchess maintains her rule because the people abore Death Watch, but if the _Hatt Mando’ade_ revealed himself...”

“Another Civil War, Mandalore needs not,” Master Yoda says gravely. Obi-Wan is in complete agreement there. “Send a Shadow to locate Fett, we shall. Maintain communications in the meantime, you must.”

Obi-Wan bows. “Yes, Master.”

“We’re asking much of you, Obi-Wan,” Master Koon says with a kind and worried expression. “Know that we do not place you in danger lightly.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, then commits. “I don’t think I am in any danger from Jango Fett. Whatever he is involved with, whatever complications his mission creates... I believe him to be an honorable man. Maybe even a good one.” He risks revealing an unconscionable flaw in his defenses, but accepts it without regret, and believes every word he speaks.

“The Force will guide you,” Mace says.

That, Obi-Wan thinks, might be part of the problem. If he is to trust what the Force is telling him, then Jango _is_ everything Obi-Wan believes him to be.

And he’s everything Obi-Wan has sworn to forsake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments! I treasure each and every one of them (and I need to be better at responding, please forgive me).
> 
> Have a very, very tired Jango, a bunch of teeny tiny clone babies, and an Obi-Wan who just wants a cup of caf in peace.

“And then - did you see - then he just went pow! And his face went blegh and I didn’t even _know_ faces could melt!”

To say Anakin’s first mission has gone off the rails would be something of a gross understatement.

“Yes, Padawan.” Obi-Wan thinks longingly of the caf waiting for them in their rooms. “I was, in fact, there at the same time you were.” He lets the hyperactive child off the shuttle first and draws his robe tighter around himself to ward off the kind of bone-deep chill you only get when utterly exhausted.

“Yeah,” Anakin gushes, once again walking backward as they make their way into the Temple, “but did you _see_?”

It’s times like this that Obi-Wan feels most distanced from his youth. Anakin’s had a nice long sleep on the transport back to Coruscant and is now fully recharged and ready to dive right back into ‘the wizard cool stuff’, while Obi-Wan can think of little beyond the siren’s song of his fresher.

He needs to get clean, then comm Jango. Falling asleep _with_ a potential assassin might not be a wise move, but Obi-Wan desperately aches for the warmth of his arms.

The weeks apart have done little to clear his focus in that regard.

Still, the near desperation in Anakin’s voice as he recounts their rather messy entanglement with - surprise surprise - a rather unpleasant group of pirates, speaks heavily of how much he wants Obi-Wan’s approval, and likely his presence. How _he’s_ landed himself in a position where someone not only cares about but craves his attention is, frankly, horrifying. But he’s committed to this path, and he will not allow his own insecurity to impact his padawan. He sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder and feels some of his exhaustion melt under Anakin’s sunshine smile.

“You did well, Padawan,” he praises, thinking back to his first mission with Qui-Gon. Anakin has equipped himself far better than Obi-Wan did, and he’s still a good deal younger. “Just remember: we completed the mission, but it is not kind to celebrate another’s death.”

Anakin blinks at him. “He was a pirate.”

“His life choices do not change the fact that he was a sentient being.”

“Pirates work with _slavers_.”

Obi-Wan is careful not to let his expression change. “Often, yes.” Not in this case, thank the Force.

“So,” Anakin says, stressing the word, “they deserve to have their faces melted off.”

Now really isn’t the time to engage in a nuanced discussion of a Jedi’s responsibility to love _all_ beings, regardless of their actions. Not after this mission, and not when it’s been less than a year since Obi-Wan held Anakin while his own explosive slave chip was removed.

Especially not when Obi-Wan doesn't completely disagree with him.

He’s saved from having to admit as much by the arrival of Mace Windu. By this point, stressed seems to be the revered Master's default expression when in Anakin’s presence, but for once Obi-Wan’s wayward apprentice is entirely innocent.

“Master Windu.” Both Obi-Wan and Anakin bow deeply. “Is everything alright?”

“We’ve located Jango Fett,” Mace says, skipping straight to the point.

Obi-Wan comes to a stop, his heart skipping a beat. That’s good, right?

At his side, Anakin starts to fidget. He’s been bursting to see Jango again for weeks.

Obi-Wan might be willing to speak of Anakin with Jango in order to maintain his cover, but he’s not about to be reckless with the boy’s life should it turn out he’s misread the situation.

“Where?” he asks, mentally waving goodbye to his caf. “Are we to leave straight away?”

Mace’s brows turn down into a deep scowl. “There’s no need,” he says, sounding as unhappy about it as humanly possible. “Fett is here.”

* * *

Six days ago, when Jango last slept, this had seemed like a _brilliant_ plan. Two dozen stim shots and a full-blown nervous breakdown later, and now he’s not so sure.

His skin might be crawling at the proximity to so many _jetii_ , but he only has to look down at the small figures clutching his leg to know he’s made the right call. Or if not the _right_ call, then at least the most sensible one.

The _jetii_ might be many, many things, but he knows in his bones Obi-Wan would never see harm befall a child, nor would he suffer one to be harmed by those who hold his loyalty.

Ergo, the _jetii_ might take his head, but the boys will be safe. These ones, at least.

That’s all he can ask for right now.

Still, that doesn’t mean he’s about to let anyone _touch_ them.

Surprisingly, no one has yet tried. He won’t explain himself to anyone but Obi-Wan - he doesn’t _trust_ anyone but Obi-Wan - but despite all but faceplanting on the Temple Guards when he’s arrived, the _jetii_ have only brought him to a comfortable room, asked him if he or the boys required medical attention, provided him with food and clothing, and left him in peace.

A good thing, because he doesn’t trust himself not to shoot the first person who gets too close, and he knows for a fact that won’t endear him to anyone. Not even Obi-Wan. Who will, after this, know exactly who and _what_ Jango is, and why he is unworthy of his kindness, even as he throws himself upon it.

Dignity, it turns out, becomes pretty overrated when children enter the equation.

His ribs ache fiercely, something not helped by the small bodies pressed around him. Boba is against his shoulder, and Jango feels _guilty_ for being unable to remove his beskar and give him a softer pillow. Three of the recruits - his _sons_ \- cuddle close to him, mute and afraid. Two more cling to his leg, and their sixth brother stands a small, silent statue between them and the door.

They don’t have names. Just numbers. They - kriff - they _need_ names.

“It’ll be alright,” Jango promises them. They don’t speak Mando’a, but they understand Basic.

They don’t _believe_ him, but they don’t _not._ They’re, gods, they are so very, very young.

The little one closest to the door flinches and falls over as it suddenly slides open. Jango wants to rush to him and make sure he’s not hurt, but can’t make a mad, protective dive without dislodging the others. He manages to get one of the boys under the arm that’s holding Boba, and the other two in a similar hold, and stands, careful not to unbalance the two on his legs.

Which, in fairness, is not how he’s imagined his reunion with Obi-Wan to go. In his head, there had been a lot less _jetii_ , a lot fewer clothes, and a lot more bedding. Instead, he’s standing there, practically bone dead from exhaustion, hopelessly clutching four small children and trying not to hurt them.

If he doesn’t sleep soon he’s _going_ to cry. He hasn’t cried in a decade, but he’s on the kriffing edge.

Obi-Wan - and Akain, peering around him - stop in the doorway and stare.

Jango’s had far too many hours to practice a smooth opening line, so it makes sense that he opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

It’s Boba who saves him - who has saved all of them already - by opening his eyes and letting out a high pitched wail of displeasure at the prospect of being awake. Jango has never identified with another being so hard in his _life_.

The silence between them shatters.

“Please,” Jango croaks. “They were gonna kill them.”

Kal’s right. Jango’s an excellent warrior and a piss-poor infantryman. Too strong-willed. Too independent. Too free thinking. And all of these boys - the first, precious six, the _survivors_ of the first batch - all equally as ill-suited to rank and file.

The ones they’re about to decant, they’re different. Modified. Made docile and obedient. Two hundred thousand clones, each as small and helpless as these six, as _Boba_ is now, and Jango has condemned them to a life of slavery and misery.

“You’re safe,” Obi-Wan says with fierce certainty. “I swear it.” And then he bends down, holds out a patient hand until it is accepted by the child watching him with such wary eyes, and gently lifts the boy up into his arms. “Hello, little one,” he says, his voice and his eyes soft with kindness. “My name is Obi-Wan, and this is Anakin.”

“Hi Jango!” Anakin waves cheerfully. “You have a _lot_ of kids.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. Jango sucks in a breath and feels it lodge in his throat. Boba continues to scream, and his bottle is all the way over on the other side of the room and even with the stims it’s been _over a week_ since Jango has slept and he can’t kriffing do this he can’t-

Obi-Wan passes the child in his arms to Anakin, who bites his lip in fierce concentration and settles in for a staring contest.

The five boys shrink closer to Jango as Obi-Wan approaches, but instead of focusing on them, Obi-Wan merely takes Boba from his arms, summons his bottle to hand with the Force, and settles him in the crook of his arm.

“They need sleep, darling,” Obi-Wan says, apparently unconcerned that Jango is here, or that he has a newborn baby and six identical children clinging to him. “You all do.”

“But-”

Boba stops crying the second Obi-Wan starts to feed him. “No buts. Unless you can outline your current situation in less than five words, I highly doubt you’re going to remain conscious long enough to explain yourself. The little ones need to sleep, and so do you. So put them to bed-” he nods his chin at the two sleep couches in the corner of the room. The boys will all fit in one, and Jango doubts they will want to be separated.

Having someone give him such clear instructions actually helps. He can get the boys settled and remove each of their tiny boots - kriffing _tiny_ , he was going to train them for war and their boots fit side by side in the palm of his hand. They watch him, wide-eyed and far too worried for their age, and Jango tries to be soft as he tucks them in. Anakin helps, flashing him an encouraging smile even as he tries to untangle himself from the death grip his new friend has on his tunic.

Once they’re settled, it takes no time at all for them to curl in close to one another, their limbs tangled together thoughtlessly.

“Anakin, would you be kind enough to run and fetch me a caf from the canteen?” Obi-Wan asks.

“On it!” Anakin’s energy is exhausting just to witness and he’s out the door in seconds. Before it closes again, Jango can see the _jetii_ waiting outside and can’t help but tense. He’s had a child in his arms ever since they left Kamino, and now he doesn’t he feels bereft.

“Bed,” Obi-Wan says sternly. “I will take watch. No harm will come to you or the children.”

“I’m sorry,” Jango chokes.

Obi-Wan gently hushes Boba, who starts to cry again the second his bottle is empty. “Someone’s hungry, aren’t they?” One gentle pass of his fingers over Boba's head and the baby is settled and ready for the next bottle.

“I didn’t know where else to take them,” he admits. “I kriffed up. I-” Alone, Jango can vanish into the Galaxy and never be found, but with the boys... hells, he’s _hired_ the best in the business to train the GAR and all but guaranteed himself a swift execution at Tyranus’s blade once they realize what he’s done.

Kal can buy him time, but not much. He has to go back eventually if he stands any hope of helping the others.

Tucking Boba to his shoulder, Obi-Wan uses his other hand to gently maneuver Jango towards the second sleep couch. It only takes the lightest touch of his palm to push him down. “I’m glad you did.”

“They were gonna kill them,” Jango says again. “ _Please_.”

Obi-Wan pushes him down. “They’re safe. _Rest_. In the morning, I will help you, Jango Fett.”

The second his head touches the pillow, he’s asleep. The last thing he sees is the man he loves - the man he’s supposed to deliver to Tyranus - holding the child he’s taken as payment in exchange for the servitude of two hundred thousand more.

For the first time, Jango is _glad_ his _buir_ cannot see what has become of him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this part: panic attacks
> 
> Mature adults? In this fic? It's more likely than you'd think!

When Jango wakes, it’s with an ache in the back of his neck that he only ever gets when he really, truly _sleeps_. Before he opens his eyes, he rolls his shoulders, knowing instinctively that he’s neither on, Kamino, or the luxury hotel that’s been his second residence for the past few months.

The crisp, clean scent of abundant greenery floats on the air and the sheets he’s laying on has the kind of worn softness that only comes from something carefully handmade. He’s... not wearing his armor. He knows he was wearing it before he lay down, remembers lamenting its cold hardness as a poor pillow for Boba and -

Opening his eyes, he finds Obi-Wan’s stretched out beside him. Boba has his face tucked into the space between his chest and arm, his little fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric of the jetii’s robe as he sleeps. Beyond the edge of the bed, he can see the boys sitting quietly on the floor, a number of small, brightly colored balls rolling back and forward between them as they play.

Obi-Wan has cared for them, just as Jango knew he would. Relief and gratitude collide with an overwhelming wave of adoration, and for a second, the first in so many long years, Jango is truly content.

Then, he remembers.

“You know my name,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “Have you always known?”

He should be terrified. If Obi-Wan knows who he is, he can likely guess _why_ Jango has pursued him. He’ll know this - them - all started as a lie, a plot, and he’ll assume that Jango still steadily walks that same path.

Faced with that kind of betrayal, even a good man might be moved in anger to harm the child in his arms. The treat, at least, would go unspoken.

He’s not afraid. Not for Boba or the boys. Not of Obi-Wan.

“You underestimate your importance, Jango Fett, both to your enemies, and those who would be your allies.” There’s no anger in his voice, which... Jango doesn’t even know if _he_ should be angry. If Obi-Wan has always known who he is, how much of himself has he really allowed Jango to see and how much has just been a ploy?

“Which are you?”

“I don’t make a habit of sleeping with my enemies,” Obi-Wan says mildly.

That, Jango thinks, is _questionable._

“So why did you sleep with me?”

There’s nothing confrontational in Obi-Wan’s expression, no emerging flash of emotion that he’s not seen before. “You made it very clear you wanted to get me into your bed,” he points out. “It seemed prudent to at least see what you wanted.”

For some absurd reason, that simple, pragmatic translation of events wedges tightly at the back of his throat. “Who says I wanted something from you?” It’s a struggle to get the words out without sounding as choked by shame as he feels.

Obi-Wan stares at him. “Why else would you approach me?”

“Maybe,” Jango says, his voice is something soft and suited to the quiet serenity of this small space he’s been given to rest in. “Maybe we live in a world where I saw you across the street and I thought you were beautiful,” he whispers, wanting to reach out and hold Obi-Wan, to hold _both_ him and Boba. He does think Obi-Wan is beautiful now, but that’s no longer an observation of the _physical_ parts of him that are so appealing. Obi-Wan can thaw the coldest parts of his heart with a smile. Before him, before the boys, Jango never expected - or wanted - to love again, his pain and his grief overpowering everything until only the darkest memories and the sharp edges of loss could stand the onslaught. That razor edge of coldness has protected him, but it's also cut deep into those around him.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan agrees, a strange sort of sadness in his eyes for what might’ve been. “But we don’t live in that world, darling. We live in this one. You wanted something from me and you lied to get it. And I let you believe that lie had traction.” He falls quiet for a long moment, his gaze turning far away in thought. It’s a fragile silence, one Jango doesn’t dare break. Then, he turns back. Another smile. A little coy and very fond. “Even if you have been plotting my untimely demise, I can’t regret our time together. I’ve enjoyed your company, Jango Fett.”

There is a lot to unpack there, starting with what Jango can only describe as an appalling lack of self-preservation, and ending with the idea that Obi-Wan does actually like him, despite both their deception. First, though, he has to clarify.

“It was never my mission to kill you.” It’s important he starts there. The fact that Obi-Wan isn’t lobbing Jango’s betrayal back in his face with anger and hurt is... well, it appears to be pretty on-brand for Obi-Wan’s serene kind of insanity. But Jango has to be clear. If he’s going to justify anything, explain anything, it has to begin with that understanding. He’s never planned on _hurting_ Obi-Wan.

Lies. Okay, he’s never planned on _killing_ him. Or any kind of permanent maiming. There’s a distinction that has to be made.

“I figured as much,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “I did give you ample opportunity to try.”

Jango sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you did. That was stupid.”

“I trust you,” Obi-Wan shrugs.

“Also stupid!”

“I wasn’t wrong though, was I?” It’s so inappropriate to want to shove Obi-Wan down into the cushions and ruin that smirking mouth of his, but kriff, that look is _exactly_ the one Jango fell for in the first place. Stupid, smug sonofa-

“That’s not the-” Jango starts to protest.

“Don’t wake the baby,” Obi-Wan says, running the edge of his pinkie finger down Boba’s nose and soothing away the first signs of distress. Over the edge of the bed, six identical sets of brown eyes peer up at him, silent and curious.

Obi-Wan is right: they _don’t_ live in that world, and Jango has a responsibility to more than his foolish heart. That lump in his throat grows bigger. “You okay, boys?”

They stand perfectly still - all but one, who carefully uses his toes to nudge the ball they’ve been playing with under the edge of the bed. Playing isn’t allowed on Kamino. Nothing outside of the rigid, regimented structure Jango has devised is allowed on Kamino.

He wants to go to them, to kneel down beside them, to show them that it’s okay to play, okay to be children, but what right does he have to do that? He’s the one who has placed them in this position.

Besides, ensuring their safety is more important than being that kind of _buir_. Obi-Wan lets them play, and they feel safe enough to do so in his company. He can give them that comfort and love, and Jango can protect them all and-

And that’s yet another fantasy. A foolish, impossible fantasy.

Obi-Wan holds Boba up and passes him into Jango’s arms before rising from the bed. Immediately, Boba’s nose crinkles in distress at the change in position. Jango’s terrified his son is going to wake up and burst into tears because he is no longer in Obi-Wan’s arms, but the warmth of Jango’s body and the comfort of his soft sleepshirt is enough to settle him down. Jango holds him carefully, reminded again just how _small_ and precious Boba is. On the other side of the bed, Obi-Wan slips his brown cloak over his tunic.

“You need to eat, then I would ask you to come with me and address the Council.”

Jango can’t remember the last time he ate anything more substantial than a ratpack. On the trip to Coruscant? Maybe?

“I’m not hungry.” He is, but he doesn't think he’ll be able to keep anything down until this is done.

He half expects Obi-Wan to argue, but he only inclines his head. “Very well.” He taps a few commands into his comm then turns to the boys. “Come along, little ones,” he says kindly. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

As if they’ve rehearsed it, the boys all take each other's hands, forming a line with their unofficial leader taking point. The boy fists his small hand into the hem of Obi-Wan’s cloak, and off they go out into the hallway, Obi-Wan’s shortened steps carefully paced to accommodate the line of tiny little troopers who follow him like tooka kits. Boba lets out a sleepy huff, and there’s no one to see Jango shaking his head in uncertain bewilderment before following, just as hopelessly enthralled as his sons.

* * *

Obi-Wan has him leave the boys with a man he introduces as Ali-Alann. The Creche Master bows deeply at their arrival and spares no hesitation in trying to put Jango’s building nerves at ease.

“A light snack, and then I think a nap,” Ali-Alann says, crouching down until he’s closer in height. “We’re about to start storytime,” he says, “and we’d be honored if you’d join us.”

Behind Ali-Alann, a dozen _jetii_ children watch them. Most are as serene and calm as their tutor, but there’s a Wookie child who wiggles in excitement at the prospect of new playmates.

“It’s better they stay here,” Obi-Wan says, keeping his voice low. When he sees Jango’s hesitation, he flashes a wry little smile. “Unless you’d like to leave them in Anakin’s care?”

“They can stay,” Jango says immediately. He trusts Anakin in so much as he trusts Obi-Wan, but the boy is a walking catastrophe waiting to happen, and for all their tender age, Jango’s boys already know how to hold a weapon.

Obi-Wan nods and bows towards Ali-Alann. “Thank you, Master.”

Ali-Alann rises and waits patiently until Jango hands Boba over. “Your children will come to no harm in my care,” Ali-Alann vows. “May the Force be with you both.”

Obi-Wan bows again and returns the sentiment. Jango stands stock still and wants to crawl out of his skin.

“The Council will see us,” Obi-Wan says as he checks his comm. “Will you be alright?” Jango’s about to face the people who authorized the _jetii’s_ actions on Galirdraan. The ones Tyranus blames for the death of his people. The ones _Jango_ blames. His earlier nausea returns. He can’t speak. “Jango?”

The hallway they find themselves in is a busy one, _jetii_ coming and going about their business. Jango is in their home. They took _everything_ from him, and now he finds himself about to beg for their help.

He broke the chains that once bound him _years_ ago, but in his instant, he feels more helpless than he ever did as a slave.

If they turn him away, if they don’t believe him, don’t trust him... if they take the boys...

Obi-Wan’s hand settles into his own and he finds himself being pulled sharply away from the main hallways and into a quiet little alcove balcony. A sprawling garden sweeps out from below them, plants climbing the walls and curling over railings. They’re cool against his fingers as he throws his weight against them, trying to find a point of stability while his legs shake.

Pitiful. This is _pitiful,_ and -

A warm hand settles between his shoulder blades.

“ _Udesii. Udesii, cyar’ika. Haalur. Haalur. Udesii._ Be calm. Breathe. _”_ It’s the words that reach him, not the voice saying them. “You are safe. The boys are safe. No matter what happens next, you will come to no harm here.”

“Jetii _lie_.” They lied at Galidraan. Maybe Obi-Wan is lying too, maybe he’s still stuck in the _same_ nightmare.

He finds himself pulled around until he’s forced to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes.

There. That new, hidden emotion he’s been looking for. The foundations of his soul that he keeps carefully hidden away. For the first time, Obi-Wan looks like a man capable of earning the moniker ‘Sith Killer’. “ _Ori'haat_ ,” he vows. “It is the truth.”

Jango _wants_ to believe him. It’s why he’s even here in the first place, but...

“ _Mando'ad draar digu_.” A Mandalorian never forgets.

“No,” Obi-Wan agrees. “And neither does a Jedi. You have my word.” He reaches up and cups Jango’s cheek in his palm. The warmth of his palm is a balm and a bolster all at once. He nods, short and sharp. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t rush Jango, seemingly ready to make his Council wait on them both. It’s that which gives Jango the nerve to ask him something.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?”

“Can I get my kriffing clothes first?”

He’s not indecent, but he’d feel a hell of a lot better about seeing the _jetii_ Council in something other than pyjamas.

Obi-Wan stares at him as though only just realizing Jango’s state, then very slowly turns a furious shade of pink.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jango. In every imaginable scenario, life sucks. 
> 
> Warnings: this part contains a brief discussion of child murder, or as the Kaminoans like to call it, 'decommissioning'.

Obi-Wan apologizes so often that by the time they finally reach the Council chambers he’s almost breathless with mortification.

Jango is at least dressed now, his armor a comfort and a shield, his _buyce_ tucked under one arm.

It’s the protection he thinks he needs as they both come to stop in the middle of a large round room, surrounded by _jetiise_.

Very intense, very intimidating _jetiise_. Jango's killed his fair share of their kind, and he's still having to pretend he's not afraid. 

“Well met, Lord Fett, I am Mace Windu, Master of the Jedi Order.” Windu directs his gaze to the small green being seated beside him. “This is Grandmaster Yoda, Master Ki Adi Mundi, Master-” Windu introduces each of the _jetii_ in turn, and they all incline their heads in greeting. Jango’s struggling with the idea of anyone calling him Lord Fett. He was just Jango, then Mand’alor, then nothing. He’s only just getting _Jango_ back, and he doesn’t have the headspace to try and fit in with the new world and political structure the usurpers have implemented.

He clenches his jaw and nods sharply. It’s the most they’re going to get from him.

“We’ve heard Knight Kenobi’s interpretation of events,” Windu says evenly. “We would hear yours.”

Obi-Wan is motionless at his side, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. He doesn’t look at Jango, but just having him there is a comfort.

“Which bit?” He’s stalling for time, he knows he is. They want everything, and he knows he needs to give it to them if he’s ever going to stand a chance of securing their aid.

“You arrived at the Temple with seven children,” the Togruta women says. Windu introduced her as Shaak Ti. “Their Force signatures are unique, but genetically they are identical.”

“They’re clones. My clones.”

“You claimed they were at risk,” Windu says. “That someone tried to kill them.”

“Begining, you should start,” Yoda interrupts.

Which beginning does he want? It feels as though he has a dozen.

He takes a steadying breath and reminds himself of Obi-Wan's promise. “I was hired by a man who calls himself Tyranus. You probably know him as Dooku.”

That sends a ripple through the room. The Council members share silent glances, whole conversations shared unspoken between them.

“Count Dooku was once a member of this Order,” Windu shakes his head. “What cause did he give for hiring you?”

Jango _knows_ that. Do they really think he doesn’t remember each and every one of the _jetii_ on the battlefield that day?

“To build the Grand Army of the Republic,” Jango sneers. "For the _jetiise_."

“We are not soldiers, and the Republic has a military service already,” Ki Adi Mundi shakes his head, visibly uncomfortable.

“Not like this,” Jango says. “Tyranus and your Master Sifo-Dyas went to the Kaminoans and commissioned an army of clone soldiers. They’re still in the development stages, but the final order is for four million. The first two hundred thousand are on target for gestation and decanting before the end of the year.”

“Master Sifo-Dyas died some tendays ago,” Shaak Ti says softly, sharing a look with Windu.

“Yeah,” Jango nods. “Tyranus killed him. I was there.”

He doesn’t look at Obi-Wan. He can’t.

“Master Dooku would never -” they look _sad_. Betrayed. Not outraged, but disbelieving.

“He hired me to be a template for your army,” Jango cuts in. “To train them.”

“You hate the Jedi,” Obi-Wan speaks up for the first time, delivering a truth that hurts every way it lands. “Why would you work with one?”

A question cut from honest can only be answered with equal truth. “The _jetii_ took everything from me,” he says gruffly. “They allied with _Kyr'tsad,_ they killed my family. Because of them - _you_ \- _Haat Mando’ade_ have all but died out. Dooku led the _jetii_ in battle that day and swore to me that he’d been deceived-” he turns to address the council “- by this Council.” Another ripple of distress runs through them all, and Jango laughs bitterly. “It seemed fitting that he would be the one to offer me a chance to rebuild what was lost.”

The boys might belong to the Republic, but they are _Mando’ade_ , and Jango will raise them in the ways of the _Resol'nare_ as best he can.

That was the plan, at least. Through them, he might find redemption. Home. Instead... instead he’s become everything he hates.

He turns again to Obi-Wan, regret softening the anger that still simmers in his heart. “Then he asked me to watch you.”

“You did a little more than watch,” Obi-Wan points out. Alone, it might be teasing, but here he sounds deadly serious.

“What does Dooku want with Kenobi?” Windu asks. If he’s the head of the _jetii_ , then it’s his responsibility to keep Obi-Wan safe. And if Obi-Wan has always known who Jango is and the threat he poses, if he’s _told_ the Council... then Windu is doing a piss poor job.

Jango scowls at him. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t particularly care. I was to search out any vulnerabilities and exploit them. And when you were ready, I was supposed to take you to him.”

Obi-Wan frowns, no doubt thinking of all their nights together. “But you didn’t.”

Jango holds his gaze. “No.”

“You lied to him.”

He lets out a heavy breath. “Yes.”

“Why?” For the first time, Obi-Wan looks close to upset. The flash of vulnerability in his eyes reminds Jango of just how _lucky_ he is. There has been no incrimination, no tears, no hurt, and all because Obi-Wan has known from the start the situation he was entering into. But if he hadn’t... if he’d been the innocent Jango set out so aggressively to seduce...

Jango would’ve truly broken with the last of his honor.

The Council don’t interrupt. They watch and wait. And no doubt judge. Jango doesn’t care anymore. Their opinion of him means nothing. Obi-Wan’s means everything.

“Because you are the opposite of everything I hate,” Jango admits. “And because I fell in love with you.” Obi-Wan turns white, his lips parting in silent surprise. But Jango isn’t done carving his heart out. “And if the _jetii_ could raise you, if they could be people _you_ love....” he lowers his chin and feels the strength seeping from his shoulders.

“Two sides of a coin, they are,” Yoda speaks up, his small hand tapping on the arm of his chair. “Love and hate. “Sense great turmoil in you, we do.” Other council members nod in agreement. “Believe you a threat to Obi-Wan, we do not. Speak for you already, he has. A good man, he says. Good heart.” Obi-Wan stares at a spot over Jango’s shoulder and pointedly doesn't meet his gaze. “Good judge of character, Obi-Wan is.”

“Mostly,” Windu adds, as dry as a Tatooine dust storm.

Yoda clears his throat far more loudly than such a small being should be capable of. “Hmph. Know who you are, we do. Looked for you, after Galidraan, we did.”

Jango feels his lip curl. “Should’ve checked with the slavers,” he says, swinging right back around to anger.

“Be mindful of your feelings, Obi-Wan,” Shaak Ti says gently. When Jango looks at him, his expression is unchanging, but _something_ is clearly brewing behind that stoic facade.

“Forgive me, Masters,” Obi-Wan’s voice catches even as he bows deeply.

“Similar, your experience with slavers is,” Yoda hums, “and very different. So too, that of your Padawan.”

“Yes, My Master.”

“We did not know what had become of you,” Windu takes over the conversation. “An explanation, not an excuse. We knew that what happened at Galidraan was something we could never allow again. For that, you have our apologies. And our deepest regrets.”

Jango can only stare at him, half tempted to tell him exactly where he can shove his apologies and half on the verge of breaking down into another pathetic mess.

An apology changes nothing. It _fixes_ nothing. But he’s never expected one, not from this level, and to _get_ it...

“The Dark Side, at play here,” Yoda says gravely. “Clouded, the truth is.”

“You came to us seeking sanctuary for your sons,” Windu circles the conversation back to it’s beginning. “They are healthy. Why do you fear for them?”

“Too healthy,” Jango swallows roughly. “And too much like me. Too independent. Willful. Apparently, that’s not what they’re looking for. They don’t want an army of _ori'ramikade,_ they want slaves. The next batch is to be genetically modified to ensure obedience. The boys... there were twelve, at first. Six of them died before they were born, and the rest... it would’ve been painless, they said.” They’d just fall asleep and not wake up again. The doctors had been so earnest in trying to express how _humane_ the whole process was. “I told them they were wasting resources. That I’d give them a trial run off-planet, and if they didn’t satisfy I’d dump them out the airlock.”

He’d been so cold when he’d said those words. So hateful. Heartless, they’d said, _amused_.

“And Boba?” Obi-Wan asks curiously.

Jango’s laugh is bitter and short. “My salary. I’ve got to go back and train the rest. Tyrauns will kill me when he finds out what I’ve done, but I couldn’t let them die.”

And he's brought them to the only person left to trust. Obi-Wan’s gaze is soft and open now, reassuring in its familiarity. “You did the right thing.”

“Learn the truth, we must,” Yoda says. “To Kamino, Masters Windu and Ti shall go. Investigate this army, they will.” Both _jetii_ nod in agreement.

“And Dooku?” Ki Adi Mundi frowns.

“I have an idea, Masters.” There’s nothing in Obi-Wan-Wan’s expression or posture that gives anything away, and yet... Jango feels his spine straightening and his eyes narrowing.

“If you’re about to suggest I deliver you to Tyrauns as ordered-”

“A solid plan, Jango, I agree,” Obi-Wan smiles.

“No!”

“It has merit,” Windu muses.

They’re all insane. “With all due respect,” and he’s not sure he means that at all, “that is the worst idea possible.”

“As bad as agreeing to let me sleep with you in order to uncover your motivations?” Obi-Wan asks.

That's. Well. Kriff. Clearly, he’s the only sane person here.

“Worse!”

Obi-Wan turns his attention to the Council. “Masters?”

“Agreed,” Windu rises to his feet and the other Masters follow. “Kenobi, you are to accompany Lord Fett and determine Dooku’s intentions.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan bows deeply.

“Fine,” Jango says furiously, “but if Tyranus kills us-”

Obi-Wan's smile flickers at the edges. “I will protect you, Lord Fett.” Bastard _jetii_.

“-kills _him_ -”

“You have our word that we will aid you and your sons regardless of the outcome," Windu promises.

“Great. That’s great.” Jango has everything he came here to get, plus a few things more. This should be a _victory_. Instead, he's probably going to die as a byproduct of Obi-Wan's insanity. “Kriffing _jetiise_.”


End file.
